Tomorrow
by Hayseed Socrates
Summary: Patrick Jane's thoughts upon waking up one morning. Set sometime after Blue Bird 6.22, this is a short, plot free piece of pure fluff.


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I do not own these characters. I am just playing with them, and no copyright infringement is intended. I'm certainly not making any money from this.

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_AN: My apologies to those who are waiting on the next chapter to "You Don't Know Me." I've been gone on vacation for a couple of weeks, and I wrote this on one of the flights on the way home. It's pure, plot free fluff, written because I was feeling all mushy, sitting in seat 12B (by accident, I swear). The title is a song from "Annie."_

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I awaken to the sensation of a cool breeze on my naked skin. Even with my eyes closed, I know she is beside me. I can feel her warmth, and the rhythmic constant of her breathing reassures me all is well. I blink my eyes open and watch the golden barely morning sunlight flow over us like honey as it filters through the bedroom curtains.

Teresa is asleep on her stomach, facing me, and her tussled hair falls nonchalantly over her bare back and across the pillow. The gauzy curtains flutter with a sudden gust of wind, and a few strands of her hair blow over onto her face. She stirs slightly, but I catch the strands and smooth them back with the rest, taking care not to disturb her.

A sheet covers her from the waist down, and her arms are reached forward, hands tucked under her pillow. One of her breasts is partially visible to me, pressed into the bed, but I can see its curved contour from the side. I recall its velvet feel against my lips last night with a tingle of pleasure.

At work, Teresa is angular and particular and impenetrable. In our bed, she is all softness and curves, liquid in my hands. Only the spice and intensity remain. The earthy scent of last night's lovemaking lingers between us, and sends my thoughts back to that act. We are good together, Teresa and I, even though we've been together barely a month, in the physical sense.

There was never any awkwardness between us, but rather a natural progression of our closeness. Our intimacy grew tremendously after the joining of our bodies. For everything I relinquished regarding my secretive and private nature, she rewarded me two fold with her growing trust and understanding. We can surrender to each other now, and yet feel safe. It is a heady feeling.

She is beautiful, this woman lying beside me, but there are scores of beautiful women in the world. Teresa is something much more important, more vital that that. She is my home, my constant. My lifeline to sanity has an adorable grumpy pout and a Glock packing ferocity, and I love and need her with an intensity that both scares and astounds me.

She shifts again slightly, and the hint of a smile crosses her face. I'd like to think she's dreaming about us last night, but it could just as easily be the result of her taking down and cuffing some dream fabricated bad guy. As good as I am at reading her now, her dreams are beyond my abilities. Maybe that's a good thing, I think wryly.

After we made love last night, she melded into the crook of my arm and we talked for ages about anything and everything. Places we'd like to go. When we might buy a house, and where. Things we'd like to do together tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. Things we would do when we got up.

For ten years I woke up every morning renewing my singular goal to catch and destroy the monster who killed my family. Some days I rose in the sparse attic, empty but for the barest necessities, and others in the extended stay motel room, where everything was generic, impersonal. I allowed myself few pleasures and fewer possessions.

Through those years, the only happiness I felt was with her – yes, I loved her – though it wasn't something I permitted myself to think about. Too dangerous. Too frightening. I couldn't give her what she deserved, and though I knew she cared for me, I focused on preventing her from coming to harm because of me, though I didn't do that well. My sharing the list with her nearly got her killed. It makes me shudder when I think of what might have been, and I push those thoughts down, out of my mind.

After I killed McAllister, I only lived because of her. Ending my life, as her father had done, would have wounded her terribly. I chose life because I knew that was what she wanted. I owed her that much, and more.

In Venezuela, I thought I was moving on, but I was lost. While I pride myself on being the smartest guy in the room with some regularity, turns out I can be pretty stupid. Even on that isolated island, my happiest moments were those when I was pouring my thoughts out to her in the letters I wrote. Subconsciously, I was hoping she might even try to find me. God, I missed her. Misery a man can bear alone, but happiness needs to be shared. Somebody famous said that, and he was right.

When I returned from the island, I 'knew' the moment I saw her at the FBI, though I couldn't yet admit it to myself. I drank in the sight of her like a man who has been all day in the desert. I was home, and it had nothing to do with the ground I was standing on. If only I had been a bit more self-aware. (Honesty is not something that comes naturally to me, after all, even to myself.)

Maybe that's why I was so determined to wait out the FBI in that silly detention room. I could sense the possibility. I might actually have a shot at living again, and hope, rather than a thing with feathers, was a tiny, fiery woman full to the brim with kindness and good. The kind of woman who buys you socks.

Like a fool, I very nearly botched it entirely with a rare show of noble selflessness on my part, jumbled up with massive cowardice and self doubt. I really did want her to be happy, and I started believing the words that passed between us rather than the cues I normally relied on. Thankfully, I pulled that one out just in time.

The sun is rising quickly now, and I fold my hands behind my head on the pillow, yawning. The birds are particularly vocal this morning, cheered by the cooler temperatures of approaching fall, I suspect. I welcome them as well, anticipating the new season. If I believed in a deity or karma, I'd believe I've been given a second chance. I don't, however, so I have to chalk it up to drawing a lucky hand. I'm going all in on this one.

In four years, the FBI should free up my funds. Teresa doesn't know it yet, but we will be able to visit those places she's dreaming about – Paris, Australia, and her namesake city of Lisbon, to name a few. I can't wait to surprise her, and I catch myself smiling just thinking about it. I will keep that secret for now - one of the few things I will keep from her - just in case they renege on the deal. We will go someday, though - I will see to it. I want nothing more than to make her happy.

Last night, right before we drifted off to sleep, she mentioned she wanted to sleep in this morning, so I am taking care not to wake her. I told her that 'tomorrow I'm going to go out and buy us a nonstick egg pan.' I'm not sure she heard (she may have already been asleep) but the idea filled me with anticipation not only because I love properly cooked eggs, but because I could utter the word 'tomorrow' with such expectation and purpose. It's been a long time since I could do that.

Teresa stirs again. "Mmm," says the woman beside me, cracking open an eye. "G'morning," she mumbles. I lean over and press a gentle kiss to her forehead. She snuggles closer to me, sighing as she rests her head on my collarbone, and her hair tickles my neck. I reach my arm behind her shoulders, pulling her closer. For the first time in years – maybe for the first time ever – I am content.

This woman I hold in my arms is the reason I can think of the future again and smile. She is my friend, my lover, and my life. Because of her, I have a tomorrow, and I am going to hold on tight.

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Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed my indulgent sappy fluff. I'll get cracking on _You Don't Know Me_ as soon as we get water back into the house... (long, sad story)


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